


The Letter

by annamatopia



Series: The Librarians and the Northern Lights [1]
Category: Person of Interest (TV), The Librarians (TV 2014)
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-25
Updated: 2015-09-25
Packaged: 2018-04-23 07:06:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4867679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annamatopia/pseuds/annamatopia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While cleaning out a dusty filing cabinet, Harold rediscovers an old letter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Letter

Harold Finch was not in the business of paper goods. He much preferred screens and keyboards to papercuts and binder clips, with the exception of his books. Paper record-keeping held little appeal to him as it was both inconvenient and difficult to keep up with. Thus, what few papers still in his possession from over the years tended to, well, pile up without supervision.

It was only after a towering stack of files and papers spontaneously fell out of a creaky, rusting filing cabinet that Harold admitted to himself that a little spring cleaning might be in order. And so it came about that, one cold morning late in January, Harold had emptied the contents of that filing cabinet onto a large conference table and was in the midst of throwing away his first and only grade-A English paper when John arrived with donuts and Bear in tow.

The donuts landed on the single open square of table and Bear laid his head on Harold’s leg, whining and wagging his entire backside. “I didn’t know you kept all this,” John said, though of course he had thoroughly examined every square inch of the library on more than one occasion, and the lock on the cabinet would prove no challenge to anyone of John’s capabilities. “I thought you were strictly digital.”

“Yes, well, in case you hadn’t noticed, I hail from before the dawn of the digital age,” Harold said, somewhat waspishly. Bear had left a line of drool on his trouser leg. “And some things are better left never within a computer system.”

John snorted and picked up a stack of crumbling envelopes. “You would know, wouldn’t you.”

They spent a few moments in companionable silence, during which Harold picked at a donut and John shuffled through old letters. “Finch,” he said abruptly, “this one isn’t even opened. Look--”

The envelope in question was still crisp and starchy white even after so many years of gathering dust. Harold vaguely remembered receiving it in his mailbox at MIT the week he hacked the FBI and visited his father for the last time. “I had other things on my mind,” he said.

John lifted the envelope between his fingers and raised an eyebrow; Harold nodded consent. John ripped it open with dextrous fingers and stared at the contents--a single page on thick, creamy paper. “It’s blank,” he said, disappointment evident.

Harold frowned and held out a hand. “Let me see.” John handed the letter over and Harold inspected the paper. A simple letterhead, L, in the upper left-hand corner, no distinctive marks of any kind. “I’m afraid I don’t understand--” he began, and then the page suddenly filled with gold script. “Oh, my.”

“What? Harold, what?” John nearly tripped over Bear in his haste to peer over Harold’s shoulder. “That wasn’t there a moment ago.”

“Thank you for stating the obvious,” Harold said without any real heat. The backlight from the lamp behind him made the letter impossible to read, so he tilted it, noting the shine on the letters.

Harold Wren,

You have been selected to interview for a prestigious position with the Metropolitan Public Library. 

That was it. No signature, no dates, no times, no further information whatsoever. 

“Now you’re got me curious,” John said. “I’m intrigued. Why do you think they sent you that?” He flipped the envelope in his hands and showed Harold the address. Harold Wren.

Harold’s phone buzzed in his pocket, a particular rhythm he knew meant work for them to do.

He folded the letter and scooted his chair back from the table. It being a generic wooden chair, rather than the ergonomic comfort he kept at his own desk, his back protested, but he ignored it in favor of limping across the room to the computer. 

John trailed after him. “What are you going to do about it?” he asked, setting the envelope next to Harold’s keyboard.

“I’m afraid, Mr. Reese,” Harold said, “that all further investigations into the mysterious letter must be put on hold, as we have a new number.” He clicked his way through the Machine’s subtlety and set the printer to work. 

If he didn’t know any better, he might have thought John looked disappointed for the smallest of seconds. “Who is it?”

Harold studied the digital dossier before him on the largest monitor. “Eve Baird, counter-terrorism agent. Let’s get to work.”


End file.
